A Haunting Aftermath
by Aunt Jo the Grammar Goddess
Summary: Sequel to Haunted. Violet wakes up in the hospital, and life slowly gets better. Rated T. Chapter 6 is now up.
1. Chapter 1

I woke up in a hospital bed, beeping machines surrounding me. I blinked several times, trying to vanquish the feeling of drowsiness. I looked around and saw my brother folded into a wooden chair, sleeping soundly. I wondered how someone could sleep so comfortably in that position. Maybe he wasn't.

I looked around the small room, thinking about many things. I wondered how I'd gotten to the hospital, who'd found me, how long I'd been unconscious, and a million other things. I heard Klaus move and looked over at him. He really needed a haircut. He was wearing jeans, a black shirt, and was wrapped in what appeared to be a grey trench coat. From the way he moved, I could tell he hadn't been comfortable. He stretched his arms over his head and said groggily, "So, you decided to join us here in the land of the living, huh?" I nodded and he went on. "You scared us, Vi. I got a call from the hospital saying you were here but they wouldn't tell me why. I got here and Sunny was crying and Duncan was trying to calm her down. Izzy called a couple of minutes ago to ask where I was, so she's on her way."

"Who found me?" I asked.

"Sunny did," Klaus whispered, "when she came home from school."

Of course, I thought. The _child_ would have to find me looking the way I did.

The door opened to admit the doctor. "Is she awake?" he asked quietly. "Oh, she is— good. You gave all of us quite a scare, my dear. That collarbone of yours as a nasty sight to see. You'll have a small scar where the bone cut through your skin—"

"What do you men, 'cut'?" I asked worriedly. I didn't relish the idea of having permanent scarring on my chest.

"Your bone—it broke through the skin on your chest. It will leave a one or two inch scar. Barely noticeable, as scars go. I've seen far worse." He walked over and looked at the machines. "There are some detectives here who'd like to ask you some question about what happened. You don't have to talk to them just yet, if you don't feel up to it, but they'll need as much information as they can get if they're going to help you."

I nodded my consent. The doctor left the room and Klaus took my hand again. We sat for a moment in dreadful, stinging silence. Klaus away for a moment and said, "Oh, I have to tell you something about—"

"Hello?" asked a woman's voice from the doorway.

The interview was not as bad as I'd thought it would be. The questions they asked were posed very politely. They didn't ask me to go into extreme detail about what happened, and when they found out I knew my rapist, they wrote down everything I said and promised to arrest him as soon as possible. The female detective told me some things that helped me get through the following days. There was something about the male detective—the way he handled himself or the way he spoke so kindly— that made me want to trust him implicitly.

When they left, I was crying a little bit. I blinked away the tears and turned to my brother. "You were saying?"

"Yes, well. Doctors usually give female…er, victims contraceptive pills and a shot of penicillin. When yours told you what he was doing, you refused to take the pills. He gave you the shot, but you fought off the pills. Then you passed out. When I arrived, they came to me and basically wanted me to give them the thumbs up for it. I told them that if you were pregnant, and if you didn't want the baby, there were other ways to deal with it." He sat back slight. "I mean, I didn't know how you would feel about a baby. You might want it. If you don't, there's adoption or…other things."

"I'd never do that, Klaus," I said quietly.

"I know."

We sat for a long time, both of us deep in our own little worlds of thoughts and worries yet, strangely, we were still there for each other somehow. The sun outside my window began to set and I vaguely remember more doctors and Isadora coming into the room. She made Klaus go home and get some rest—to get sleep if he could—and sat there with me until I fell asleep. I woke the next morning with Duncan. His eyes were sad and I knew what he was thinking. I'd thought about it as well. I believe everyone had thought about it at some point or another.

_We knew Quigley didn't exactly treat me right, but _rape

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity, I was released from the hospital. The doctor told me to still be very careful when lifting heavy objects. He gave me warning, after warning, after warning. I smiled to myself when he handed Klaus the prescription for my painkillers. 

Sunny was at school when I got home that day, so I didn't have a crying pre-teen on my hands. I was infinitely thankful for that. _Anyway,_ I told myself, _Duncan is staying with me and Sunny is with Klaus and Isadora. It wouldn't matter._ I went to my bedroom with the intention of going to sleep, but I couldn't. I took one step into the room and memories overpowered me. This was where I tripped and fell flat on my face, that was where he held me like the concerned lover he wasn't, that was where the gun had been….

But I was tired and I wanted to sleep in my own bed for a change. I forced myself to run across the room and crawl under the covers. The sheets were soft, if a little cold, but very comfortable. For the first time in a long while, I was in my own bed in my own apartment. For the first time in a long while, I could sleep in bed without being woken by doctors in the middle of the night. For the first time in a long while, I felt like myself again.

I heard a knock on my door, followed by "Can I come in, Violet?"

"Yes," I called back.

The door opened to admit Duncan He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He stroked my cheek for a moment and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "I have to go to work in a few minutes. Do you need me to do anything or get anything for you before I leave?"

"Thank you, but no. My goal right now is to go to sleep."

"Okay," he replied, laughing softly. "I'll let you sleep, then." He took my hand and squeezed it quickly. "Call me if you need anything," he added, leaning down to kiss my cheek. He reluctantly got up and left. I rolled onto my side and finally slept.


	2. Chapter 2

_Quigley and I are walking down a city street and talking about our wedding plans. His fingers are intertwined with mine very tightly. He asks me about my dress—what color is it (Ivory), how it is cut (Modestly), and when the alterations will be done (In two weeks)—and I know that he's the one. I _know _that he'll take care of me, I _know _he'd never hurt me. He loves me _so_ much. _

_He tells me he loves me and kisses me sweetly. I push him back—I don't like to kiss in public—and we laugh. I look in his eyes and I know_ _he's the one. How can he not be?_

_Someone runs up behind us and pushes us over, grabbing my ring and purse. The man can't run very fast and Quigley catches up to him in no time. He tackles the man and gets my things from him. The man throws a punch at him and Quigley runs back towards me. _

"_Come on," he yells. He grabs my wrists and pulls me along for a moment. We turn a corner and then duck into an alley. It is lit be a few street lamps. We lean against the wall, as if we are trying to merge into it, and we see the man run past us. He doesn't see us._

_We take a few deep breaths, and at least I am still shaking from fear. Quigley puts his arms around me and kisses my forehead, my temple, my ears. I look up at him, to ask if he's okay, and he kisses my lips. This time I don't object._

_I start to get uncomfortable after a moment. I try to pull away, but he pins me to the wall. I ask him—_tell him_—to stop, but he doesn't listen. He tells me he loves me again. _

_I somehow don't believe him anymore._

_Suddenly, the lamps go out and everything turns to black and I feel him force me on the ground. I'm crying now, and I feel so helpless. It happens all over again._

I woke up with a scream, my heart pounding, my breath coming very fast. I looked around my room and reassured myself I was in my apartment, not with Quigley. It took a moment for me to clam down. Once I did, reality made itself know and the smell of food floated into my room. The smell of Mexican cuisine, my favorite, gave me the motivation to get out of bed and walk into the kitchen. Sunny was pulling enchiladas out of the oven. I spied taco shells and meat on the counter. Duncan was sitting on the sofa, writing in a notebook. He was the first to notice me.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes, eh?"

"Yeah," I replied groggily.

"We were torn between letting you sleep and waking you up for dinner. It's Mexican food," he added unnecessarily.

"I know. I could smell it in my room. The smell woke me up."

"Dinner's ready!" Sunny called from the kitchen.

As we walked, I asked Duncan, "Why is she here? I thought she was staying with Klaus and Isadora?"

"She wanted to come cook something for you. She's been kind of emotional lately, and it shows through her cooking. She hasn't stopped since she heard you were coming home. If you don't believe me," he added quietly, "look in the fridge."

I got a plate and returned to the table. I served myself an enchilada or two and a taco, which was piled high with cheese and tomatoes, and sat down at the table. I realized I didn't have a drink and walked back into the kitchen to get one. When I opened the fridge, it was packed with homemade goods. Everything from chocolate pie to roast beef, from lasagna to steak, from macaroni and cheese to mashed potatoes, and everything in between.

If Sunny never cooked again, I'd have enough food to last me until I died.

Duncan came up behind me, reached past me to get out the milk, and whispered, "I told you so, Vi."

I shook my head and walked back to the table. When Sunny sat down, I said, "Thanks, Sunny. It was really nice of you to come over and do all this for me."

And that was where the meaningful conversation stopped. We sat in silence for a few moments. The only sounds to be heard were of the silverware scrapping the plates.

"So," I said, in an attempt to make polite conversation, "how was your day today, Sunny?"

"Fine." She looked down at her plate not wanting to meet my eyes. She went on. "We started reading a novel in Lit class; we're learning about algebra-type stuff in Math; Mr. Perry gave us a test today mechanical advantage, which I failed; in Social Studies, she assigned us a report on a religion other than our own. I'm doing Islam, I think, or maybe Buddhism."

"That's cool," I said.

"You're not gonna yell at me?"

"For what, sweetie?"

"For failing a _Science_ test? On_ mechanical advantage_?"

"If you don't understand something, you don't understand it. That's all there is to it, Sunny. The only thing that matters to me is that you're putting forth effort and learning something, even if it's not—."

"But I failed because—" she stopped for a split second and continued in a sad tone, "you couldn't help me."

I closed my eyes slowly. She hadn't meant it like it ended up sounding, I knew. But just because it wasn't mean the way it was said didn't mean nobody thought about it that way. There was silence, dead, suppressive silence, for a few moments when I heard Sunny whimper. I looked over at her and saw she was crying. Before I could move, she stood up and walked away. Duncan got up quickly and followed her. He caught one of her wrists and pulled her gently into his arms. Leaning against him, she continued to cry for a long time.

I put my head in my hands and nearly cried as well. I fought to gain control of the tears. A few escaped, and I wiped them away. I walked over to Sunny and stroked her hair lightly. Duncan moved back slightly so I could hold her. She buried her face into my chest and her tears renewed themselves with less force. I let my own tears fall down my cheeks. They landed in Sunny's hair. I don't believe she noticed.

"I-I'm sorry, Violet. I di-didn't mean it like th-that."

"I know, Sunny. I know. I usually help you with stuff like that. I understood what you meant perfectly."

"I promise, Violet, I didn't—"

"Sunny," I said firmly, "look at me. We can't go on pretending like nothing happened. I was in the hospital, yes. I was gone for a long time, yes. I was raped, yes. Life doesn't stop because something bad happens. You just have to deal with it and go on with things. I'm not saying nothing will _change_ as a result of what happened. Things may change, and we'll adjust. Admirably, I'm sure." I leaned down, kissing her forehead. She wiped her eyes and nodded.

"Violet?" she asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Why did he do that to you?"

"That's a good question, Sunny," I said quietly. "A _very_ good question, indeed."


	3. Chapter 3

The realization that one might be pregnant by one's ex-fiancé is daunting enough. When your ex-fiancé is also your rapist, any thought about a child are all the more frightening.

I sat on the edge of my bed, counting the days and weeks. I hoped to God Almighty I was counting something twice. After consulting the calendar, I found that my math was exactly correct.

I was pregnant with my rapist's baby.

No, I told myself, it might be stress or something like that. I told myself to wait a few days to be sure, but I couldn't convince myself.

I tried to go on with my daily routine, and for the most part I succeeded. The only time I thought about the possible child was when I picked Sunny up from school. Her friend wanted to come over for a while and hang out. I talked to the girl's mother and discovered she was again with child. She had four of them already. I congratulated her as enthusiastically as I could, considering (what might be) the circumstances. We arranged a time for the girl's mother to come get her and went home. Sunny slid in next to me and pulled her CD player out from under the seat. I looked at her and imagined for a moment she was the son or daughter I might be carrying.

She looked up at me and saw the small tears in my eyes and asked me if I was okay. I nodded, running my fingers through her blonde hair. I cupped the side of her face and told her I was fine. I sighed while Sunny got in the back seat with her friend. I drove to the apartment, not speaking a word.

The girls did their homework and I discovered they were both fans of musicals, which they talked about for nearly an hour. I walked into my bedroom, shaking my head, and went about drawing plans for an invention I had (literally) dreamed up the night before. As I worked, my thoughts circled around Quigley. Why I was thinking of him I truly don't know. It hurt me to think of him. The more I tried to push him out of my mind, the more I found my thoughts seemed to revolve around him.

At first, I thought about why I stayed with him in the first place. He had abused me verbally and emotionally, and he'd come very close to physical abuse once. At the time, I had been so deeply in love as to be completely blind to my darling's mistreatment of me and of his other faults. Was love supposed to do that? Wasn't love supposed to heal you, make you happy? I'd thought so. Looking back at the past few years, I recalled events and words that I had mentally filed under "Stress" or "Bad Days." I realized in those moments that those things were abuse. But he had never hit me, he had never hurt himself, and he had never (physically) hurt my family.

I also realized he had done much more damage with his words than his recent actions.

Despite those actions on his part, I was still having feelings for him. He had been, of course, the man I loved. He had been the man I had planned to marry. He was—might be—the father of my child. In the back of my mind, I sill loved him. In the part of me that remembered him as my sweetheart, I loved him.

But in another part of my mind, I saw him as the man who raped me. The man who ruined my life. I was the woman with whom he (might have) conceived a child, albeit not consensually. In that part of my mind, I will always remember him as the man who wrecked my life, the man I could never love.

I _wanted_ him to be the man I loved, and the man who loved me. He wasn't. Not anymore. I was starting to doubt that he had ever been the latter. But I still thought of him, dreamed of him as that man. Oh, who _was_ I kidding? I had feelings for him, although I wouldn't call them "love." I was _attracted to_ the man who raped me. I had to deal with feelings and thoughts that I didn't want any longer. I loathe to apply the term "whore" to anyone, and yet…

I realized I had stopped working altogether. I put down my pencil and note pad in irritation, and got up to check on the girls. They were singing their favorite musicals now. I rolled my eyes. I heard the doorbell ring. It was the girl's mother.

I ate a snack and thought about the time he had almost hit me. It was only once, but it had scared the life out of me. He was having a bad day. He hadn't been in the best of moods, and to make things worse, the bad day was compounded by a headache. He'd been snappish all day. He came over to my apartment after Sunny got home from school, as he often did. He was sitting on the couch, with all the lights off. Everything was silent as the grave. I was sitting next to him, stroking his forehead and occasionally kissing his closed eyes or his lips. He took some medicine, but it had not kicked in yet.

Soon, though, he opened his eyes slightly and smiled at me. He sat up a little and kissed me. He was a very talented kisser. I blushed a little at the thought, and he deepened our kiss. Before I knew what was happening, I was sitting on his lap. He put his arm around my shoulders. I pulled back a bit, trying to get away. He leaned forward with me. His movements had matched my own so well, his tongue was still making its way down my throat. He moved so that he was slightly above me. I told him to stop. I was getting scared.

"No."

"Please! Just, please stop. I—"

"Just shut the f!ck up and do what you're told, Violet."

I was so angry, I pushed all one hundred and sixty-four pounds of him off of me. I got up hurriedly so he couldn't resume his actions. I pulled my thin black duster around me a little tighter, as if to reassure myself I was still clothed. I leaned against the wall for support, my knees going weak suddenly, and watched him. He got up and glared at me and calmly told me again to do what I was told. He didn't yell. He wouldn't take the chance of being heard.

My breath started to speed up. He was walking towards me now. I had nowhere to go. He was backing into a corner. I was scared, so scared, and he just kept coming. I stepped back, which only served to make my situation worse. I stepped back again and felt at my back the place where two of the room's walls met. I felt one solitary tear fall down my cheek from my left eye.

He was standing very close to me now. He grabbed my arms near the elbows and squeezed as hard as he could. Before I could do anything we heard, "Violet?"

Sunny had seen nearly the whole thing. He, of course, denied it. He was too much of a coward to do anything else. Poor baby.

_Baby._ Every thought somehow came back to the baby. I tried not to worry about it much, but I couldn't stop myself. I kept thinking about the changes I would have to make in order to accommodate a child. I'd have to buy newer and stronger locks for the Work Room. I would have to buy the necessary supplies—not that money was a problem, I made enough to support a baby, and we had more in the bank—I would have to baby-proof my apartment, Klaus and Isadora's house, and, most likely, Duncan's.

There were probably other things. I just couldn't think right now.

The phone rang. It was Isadora. "Hello?"

"Hey, Vi. How are you?"

"I'm…well—"

"I know. Stupid question." She laughed a little and added, "But something's…worse today?" When I didn't respond, Isadora repeated her question.

I sat down on the couch and tucked my feet under myself. "I've just…I've been having a bad day, that's all."

"What happened?" she asked.

"I'm depressed," I lied. "Everything makes me cry. I don't want to cry anymore. It's so annoying." I couldn't think of anything else to say or any other way to stall for time. I was finding it hard to give voice to my suspicions.

"Sorry," Isadora replied quietly. "I wish I knew how to help." After a moment, she added, "You don't need a shrink, do you?"

"No!" I answered quickly. "I might need some anti-depressants or something, but not a psychiatrist."

"Okay." She sounded as if she was tired. When I asked her about it she said, "No, I'm just worried about you."

"Don't be, Izzy."

"No, really, Violet. I'm worried about you. And I just keep getting this vibe like you're holding something back. Just tell me, Violet. Is something wrong?"

"For the last time, nothing is wrong."

"Are you sure?"

The small question made me freeze. If anyone could understand, it would be Izzy, the fellow female of the species. She was my best friend. It's not as if I couldn't trust her discretion—if I asked her not to tell anyone, she wouldn't. Then why couldn't I tell her?

"Violet?"

I didn't know why I couldn't. I started to cry a little, not knowing what to do.

"Are you there, Violet?"

She was worried about me. She wouldn't be this persistent if she didn't really care. She'd have let it go by now. You could always tell when Isadora didn't care about something, because she didn't say a word, as if she was listening intently.

"Violet, if you don't answer me, I'll hang up and come to your apartment."

"I'm sorry. I was…You really want to know what's bothering me?"

"Yes, really."

"I think I'm pregnant."

There was a long silence at the other end. It seemed to drag on forever. Finally, a small voice asked, "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I wish I was, Isadora."

"No, Violet, you might not be pregnant. It could be stress or something—I mean, Quigley was arrested yesterday and his trial should start soon—it might not be—"

"It is, Izzy. I can feel it. I don't like the thought of me carrying his baby either, but I'm nearly positive that's what it is."

"Nearly positive? What do you mean, 'nearly positive'?"

"I mean…I haven't taken any steps to prove it."

"In other words, you haven't been to see a doctor or bought a test yet."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, you probably need to get a pregnancy test, Violet."

"I know. I just…don't want to."

Isadora sighed. "Well, you have to, even if it's just to rule out the possibility."

"I know," I repeated. After a long minute, I whispered, "I don't want this. I don't want to be pregnant with his baby."

"I don't want you to, either, Violet." She took a breath and hesitantly suggested that she buy the test and come over to be with me while I waited for the results. I agreed. I didn't think I could take being alone right then.

Half an hour later, Isadora knocked on the door to my apartment. She handed me a small plastic bag from the local drug store.

"You're lucky no one we knew was there or I'd have had a lot of explaining to do." I smiled a little. I was grateful she could make me smile. I didn't know how much longer I'd still want to.

"Come one," Izzy said gently, taking me by the arm and leading me towards the back of my apartment. "I won't leave you alone."

It was the longest five minutes of my life.

As we waited for the results, I leaned against the wall outside the bathroom and started to cry. I knew it would be positive. I knew it. There was no doubt in my mind. Izzy held my hand and told me everything would be okay. _You're not the one who could be with child, Isadora,_ I thought.

**She's only trying to help.**

_I know. It's not working._

**It's the thought that counts.**

"Hey, Vi? It's been five minutes."

I turned towards the door slightly. "Will you come with me?"

She nodded. I walked into the room, nervous out of my mind. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to have a baby, and certainly not by Quigley.

I picked up the little strip of plastic and closed my eyes. I looked down and saw the little blue mark.

I felt Izzy behind me, heard her whisper "Oh, God," and collapsed crying onto the cold tile bathroom floor of my small apartment.


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that I was carrying Quigley's child. In time, I began to feel something for this child, I began to love it. The first time I felt it kick, I knew life would be alright. I knew that I could raise this baby.

I started taking pleasure in getting ready for the baby's arrival. I no longer cried when I thought about it or had to but something for it. I had, in fact, been very nervous until the doctor told me I wasn't in danger of miscarriage any longer: it would have been a shame to waste all that money on something that would never happen. I hated having those types of thoughts now.

I sat back in the rocking chair and thought about what to do next. I'd picked out a crib for the baby, I'd bought clothes, and Klaus and Isadora had painted the nursery. He had…everything. No, that didn't sound right. There _had_ to be something….

Car seat! We still needed a car seat! Probably two, if Klaus and Isadora wanted one for their car.

There was still something else, though.

The phone rang, interrupting my train of thought. I answered, "Yes?"

"Violet? This is Det. Benson. I was calling to tell you that the District Attorney will be setting a date for Quigley's trial soon."

"Thanks for calling. I guess they'll be wanting me to testify against him?"

"Yes." After a moment she added, "Well, I'll let you go."

"Good-bye. And thanks again for calling."

Now, what was it I was still missing?

* * *

Today was the day. I was being called as a witness in Quigley's trial. The prosecuting attorney had more than enough evidence to convict him. They had several of his hairs on certain articles of my clothing he wasn't supposed to have access to, his semen inside of my body, his skin underneath my fingernails, and a very distinct bloodstain on the floor of my bedroom. They also had witnesses who saw him leaving my apartment at the right time, and neighbors who'd heard my screams. (Although why these same neighbors didn't call the police, I don't know.) They also had my baby's paternity test if they needed it. 

Oh, yes, they had plenty of evidence, but they needed my testimony against him as sort of the sad icing on a very sickening cake. I heard a knock on the from door to my apartment. It was Klaus. He was driving me to the courthouse. I was too nervous to drive myself. I was practically crying already. I didn't want to do this, but I knew I had to. It had never really been my habit to shirk a duty. Besides, I wanted Quigley behind bars where he couldn't hurt some other poor girl.

I opened the door. "You ready to go?" Klaus asked.

"No."

"I thought I was early. How long do you need?"

"Eternity."

Klaus sighed. "Come one, Violet. You know you have to do this."

"I know. Let me get my purse."

Everything was a blur until I got up on the witness stand. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. I got through ADA Haldon's interrogation fine, but the Defense tore me apart.

"Miss Baudelaire, is it not correct that you consensually let the Defendant into your apartment?"

"Yes."

"And is it also not correct that you let him enter your bedroom consensually?"

"It wasn't—"

"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."

"Yes."

"And is it not true that you let him lay down on your bed with you."

"But—"

"'Yes' or 'no,' Miss Baudelaire."

"Yes."

"Is it not true that you allowed him to kiss you while the two of you were laying down—alone—on top of your bed?"

He was making me angry now. But it technically was the truth. "Yes."

"And didn't the two of you begin to sexually touch one another?"

"No! We have _never_ touched each other like that!" I quickly looked over at Quigley. He was looking down at his jeans. I had a sneaking suspicion he was becoming aroused at hearing me describe what had happened. He looked up again and I saw him grinning. Oh, yeah, he was enjoying it. He was such a pervert.

"Well, you might as well have been! You gave my client all the signs of wanting to further your relationship with sexual intercourse, didn't you? You took him into your bedroom—"

"He—"

"—you laid down on your bed with him—"

"But I—"

"—and you kissed him while he held your body so close to his own! Can you blame him for wanting to make love to the woman he loves?"

"I said no! He didn't listen! I told him no, and if he really loved me, he would have waited six months and married me! He could have raped me any time he wanted then!"

Realizing I had done exactly what he wanted me to, I allowed a few tears to escape. I heard him say, "_Thank you_, Miss Baudelaire. No more questions."

Mr. Haldon stood up. "Redirect, Your Honor?"

The judge nodded.

"Miss Baudelaire, will you please remind the court how you got from the living room to the bedroom of your small apartment?"

"Quigley and I started walking back towards my room, but I stopped him and told him I was uncomfortable with going any further. I started crying for some reason and he held me and tried to calm me down. Then he picked me up and walked into my bedroom. He sat down at the computer desk, and when I wouldn't stop crying he laid me down on my bed."

"Thank you, Miss Baudelaire."

The jury was out ten minutes. They returned with a guilty verdict.

Quigley was later sentenced to fifteen years in prison.


	5. Chapter 5

Four weeks. One short month was all that I had left before my due date. A few months ago, I would have been ecstatic, overwhelmed with joy at the thought of greeting my baby for the first time. A few weeks ago I would have been shopping for him like mad, buying clothes and other such essential things. I would have smiled every time I felt him move or kick.

With each passing day, however, I was becoming more and more nervous about this undertaking. Every time I felt his movements now, I thought of all the thing that could be wrong with him. I thought of the damaged future he might have if I did something wrong.

Although, truth be told, I was more worried about the things that were out of my control, like his looks or his personality. I was worried he would strongly resemble his father, and I didn't think I could handle looking at a miniature Quigley for the next eighteen to twenty years. What would I do when the baby asks about his daddy? I couldn't just tell a small child that his father forced his mother to have sex with him. I doubt even the most intelligent toddler would understand the concept of sex, let alone rape. I know he'll wonder why he doesn't have a daddy like the other children he plays with.

Then, there's the problem of him having no father-type figure. He has Klaus and Duncan, sure, but I didn't think either of them counted. They would be important people in his life, but they couldn't step up and take the place of My Baby's Father. I wondered idly if the people I worked and lived around would think less of me for being a single mother. I couldn't help it if the baby's father was in jail.

And suddenly, I realized Quigley wasn't going to be in prison forever. When the baby was about fourteen or so, Quigley would be released. I dreaded the thought of him showing up at my door wanting to see his son. I wouldn't let him.

I decided there was no point in worrying about it now. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

A problem that was slightly closer at hand, however, was the baby's name. I had looked at a few Internet sites with no luck at all finding a name I liked. Isadora and Klaus had been trying to have a baby and had bought several baby name books, along with a book on Etymology, in the hopes that positive thoughts would indeed produce positive results. That had been four years ago. The only luck they'd had ended in a very messy miscarriage.

When I arrived at Isadora's house, she was ready and waiting for me, with books scattered all over the kitchen table. I walked over and hugged her as best I could and sat down at the table. She smiled at me.

"First of all," she said, "do you have any ideas about the baby's name?"

"His middle name is going to be 'Bertrand' after my father. I'm sick of naming children after dead people, but I suppose 'Bertrand' is the exception. My dad and I were very close. Anyway, the baby's a boy, so it has to be a guy's name. And I don't want it to start with 'B' because then his initials would spell BBB. I would not want to force that on even my worst enemy."

"You know Quig's middle name is Quentin, don't you?"

"Quigley Quentin Quagmire? Oh, what a sense of humor you parents had."

"I know." Isadora said. "What about Michael? "

I shook my head. "David?" she continued.

"No."

"Louis? Thomas?"

"No."

"Timothy? Alexander? Alex? Josh?"

"No. Nothing sounds right. I've looked on several Internet sites and can't find anything that sounds right."

"What about Matthew?"

I considered the name for a moment. 'Matthew Bertrand' sounded great. Well, if not great, then it was the best sounding name so far. And I liked it.

"Anthony?" she suggested. "Richard? Mar—"

"I like Matt."

We sat in silence for a few moments before Isadora asked, "Violet, why did you…?"

"Why did I what?"

"Why did you keep the baby?"

The question surprised me for a second. As I'd told Klaus when I was in the hospital, I couldn't have had an abortion. I just couldn't. It went against everything I'd ever known. In my mind, abortion equates to murder. I would never (intentionally) murder anyone, nor could I (intentionally) murder my child. It had been a simple decision for me: I could not have an abortion.

I knew other people held opinions that differed from my own, which was fine. If everyone thought and felt the same about everything, there would be no spice to life, no joy in living. Everything would seem grey and monotonous, boring and sad. There would be no point in having free will.

I knew there were some people who supported abortion, but I wasn't one of them, at least not for myself.

I tried to answer my nearly-sister-in-law, but I couldn't. I sat there stupidly, my mouth opening and closing slightly. I must have looked like a fish. I finally formulated and answer and replied, "I…I just had to."

"But why? What if the baby has something wrong with it? What if it's deformed or something like that? What if—?"

"Izzy, what if the baby you want to have with my brother might have something wrong with it? Would you kill it just because something _might_ happen to it? Maybe my baby will be born healthy, and maybe he won't. I'll never know what I'd be missing if I didn't give him a chance."

"But he was conceived because you were—"

"What does that matter?" I asked, getting a little angry. "The baby can't help that it was conceived the way it was. If anyone should die as a result of my rape, it should be my rapist, not my _child_!"

Isadora gasped quietly. I looked away, knowing I had gone too far. My rapist was her triplet, as much as we all tried to ignore the fact. I had thought about the differing ways to murder him many times over the past eight months. I had never let on—in front of Isadora or Duncan—that I had ever had such thoughts. Klaus knew about them, and had promised not to tell anyone else. Duncan and Isadora were still having trouble adjusting to the idea that Quigley raped me. Oh, they'd never denied it like I feared they would have—I'd thought they would defend him at the very least—but they had been very uncomfortable around me until recently.

I put my self in Izzy's shoes, and tried to imagine if someone—with or without my reasons—would have talked about killing my brother. I didn't like it.

"Isadora, I—"

"No, don't apologize. I knew what you meant."

"Isadora—"

"Just forget it, Violet." Her voice was slightly louder than normal. "Just—it's fine, I swear. Just leave it alone."

I could see a tear falling down her cheek. I felt like an insensitive brute.

Unexpectedly, she went on. "I know how you must feel about Quig. I'd probably feel the same about Klaus if he ever did that to me. But…I mean, I never thought in a million years that he would do that to anyone, let alone you. I know you don't think so, Violet, but he loved you. He really did." She was silently for a moment or two. When she spoke again, I could barely hear her. "I still love him. He's my brother, he always will be. I love him, but I want to hate him. And I can't. I just…can't." She slid down on the kitchen table, her head resting in her crossed arms. Her shoulders shook as she cried.

I didn't quite know what to do. Isadora was not prone to breaking down in front of anyone not named "Klaus" who she wasn't sleeping with. I don't think, in all the time since we'd been reunited with the Quagmires, that I'd ever seen her cry like this. Yes, she'd cried when we'd all found one another again and when Klaus asked her out, but those had been tears of joy. They weren't at all the same as these tears.

I was contemplating going over and trying to comfort her when I heard Klaus come through the front door. I looked behind me into the living room and heard him say, "I'm home, baby. I gotcha something." When he heard her cries, he added, "Izzy? Are you okay?" He walked into the kitchen with a long, slender box in a small white bag that he'd slung around his wrist. He looked at me. Not getting an answer quickly enough, he dropped the bag, went down on his knees in front of her, and put his arms around her as best he could. She turned into him and laid her head on his shoulder. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she kissed his neck lightly. Klaus was muttering comforting sayings in her ear in an effort to get the crying to cease. She stopped after a moment and sat back. He wiped her tears and running purple eyeliner away from her eyes, and she smiled slightly. As he straightened, she stood up with him and kissed his lips. Smiling to himself, he kissed her back and I caught a glimpse of his tongue. I looked away, wondering if they'd forgotten about me. I had to cough loudly twice before they noticed.

"Sorry," Klaus said quietly. He let go of his lover gently and asked me, "Since I'm not seeing your car outside, I assume you need a ride home?" I nodded and he offered to take me back to my apartment. I, of course, accepted.

As he was driving me home, I explained to him the reason Isadora had been crying. He nodded and said the explanation, while wanted, had not been necessary. He told me about a promise they'd made to one another about tears. If one of them was crying and told the other they didn't want to talk about it, the other was to leave them alone until they felt ready to "confess." Sensible, I thought to myself.

"So, have you decided on a name for the baby yet?"

"Oh, yes. It's going to be 'Matthew Ber—'" My sentence was cut short by a tightening pain in my abdomen. I'd been having "contractions" for a few days now. The doctor had told me it was normal, that my body was just getting ready to have the baby, but they'd never hurt like this before.

Klaus looked at me, and asked, "Are you okay?"

"No. Take me to the hospital," I said, putting my hand on my stomach.

"Why? What's wrong?"

I exhaled slowly as the pain dulled down. "I think I'm gonna have the baby."


	6. Interlude

**(A/N- I wrote this story a couple weeks ago to try to imspire myself. It failed. But I've decided to post. It is from Violet's son Matt's POV when he's around fifteen or sixteen. And, yes, I realize there is completely no word about Aunt Sunny. I didn't realize what I'd done until I posted it on 667 Dark Avenue. Deal with it. ;) )**

* * *

Violet Baudelaire—the name conjures up many differing ideas. To me, she's my mother. To my aunts and uncles—or, at least, the people I call Aunt and Uncle—she is a sister and a loyal friend. But to my father—the man who ruined her life—she is an enemy. He maintains that he didn't rape her, that they had consensual sex and she inflicted the injuries on herself because she was ashamed of what she allowed herself do.

Yeah, like that made any sense.

I hate him. My mother often tells me I don't know him well enough to hate him, that I don't truly know what he's like and what he's capable of doing, but I know enough to form my own opinion about him. He'd been released from prison a year ago and had tried to kidnap me from school. I shook my head with the memory. That had definitely been one of his more idiotic actions. Why try to steal me away, be caught, and then be sent back to jail?

He'd been re-incarcerated a few months later. I'd had trouble dealing with the fact that my own father had tried to kidnap me and that the incident had sent my mother back to her shrink. I'd gone with her.

Most people think you have to be crazy to see a psychiatrist. My mother isn't insane; she just has a few mental/emotional problems. Dr. Harrison is really cool. During one visit, she'd told me to start writing poetry to get out all of my negative emotions, so I wouldn't have so many self-destructive thoughts.

"It works, sweetheart," she'd said. "Ask your mother."

I had turned to her just in time to see her lock eyes with the woman across the room. Both faces were blank, but the expression in their eyes was one I had had trouble identifying. Something passed between them—some message only they understood—and I hadn't known what it was. It had been awkward in the extreme to just sit there and not know what was happening.

Finally, my mother's eyes had fallen and slowly, she'd looked over at me. She'd said, "Remind me to show you some when we get home."

She had.

I would have never thought my mother capable of writing such things. In the first one she'd showed me, she'd talked about killing my dad, killing herself, and how I was the only thing that had stopped her. In another, she'd written about how my dad had taught her not to trust, and also to be afraid. She'd compared him to some guy I'd never heard of before. When I asked her, my mother refused to answer, saying I was never going to about him, he was dead, and didn't deserve to be remembered.

I know who Count Olaf is now.

My mother hates Lemony Snicket. She says he had no right to release those books the way he did, without asking her and her siblings if they would like the whole world to know about their life. She could have killed him when she heard they had decided to make the movie.

I was forbidden to read the books. Mom said that when she felt ready to tell me, I'd hear about it. I was forbidden to see the movie as well, but I snuck out and saw it one night with my friends. I don't think she ever found out about it. If she did, I never got into trouble for it.

I am the only one of my friends who never read the books. No one commented, though. I suppose they assumed since my mother was _the Violet Baudelaire_, I knew everything there was to know. I don't. My friend left one of the books at my house once, the one entitled _The Slippery Slope_, which, in the end, is how I found out about my father. I'd picked up the book and started to read, knowing I was going to get into trouble for it. I'd nearly made it to the end—I was finishing chapter twelve—when Mom walked into my room and caught me red-handed. I'd been nearly twelve at the time, and had received a major spanking. It had been more embarrassing than anything else; it hadn't hurt all that much, but to be spanked at twelve? Pure humiliation. It probably hadn't helped that my little sister had seen it.

Kasey Marie is a pain sometimes, but deep down, she's cool. The coolness is so deep down that a miner might have trouble finding it, but it is there. It shines through the bratty-ness from time to time

Technically speaking, Kasey's my half-sister. She is Jack's daughter. She looks like him due to the green eyes, sparse freckles, and the fact that she's "vertically challenged." She really doesn't resemble Mom physically, except for the black hair. She was born when I was five. I remember being absolutely fascinated with her when she was a baby. As soon as she learned to walk, talk, and tell on me, however, I wanted nothing to do with her.

She's what some might call a prep, a brat, or a goody-two-shoes. She thinks more of herself than she should at times, and I'm always there, for her own good, to bring her down a little. I'd inherited the Quagmire wit from my father.

My mom tells me that's the only thing I got from him that she likes. I'd gotten his temper, among other things, but they're all bad traits. Mom says that although she can see him in me sometimes, I have a lovely balance between them. I was destined to have black hair—bother of them did—and I had my mother's bright blue eyes and her expressive smile, and my father nose and chin. I resembled my mother in my personality all except for that dry, satirical sense of humor, which bordered on rude every now and again, according to my stepfather.

Jack is an okay guy, but I can't say I get along with him totally. I am more than a little protective of my mother, and he is still the enemy sometimes. Especially when he lets his ego get the better of him. We have our occasional spats and arguments every so often, mostly provoked by either Kasey or myself, but altogether we have an endurable relationship. He isn't my favorite person in the world, but at least he hasn't abandoned us like my biological father.

My mother never mentions him around me, unless she's telling me about something he did to her, in which case it's not being spoken of in a good light. My Uncle Klaus, however, will call me out if he sees me doing something he thinks is "Quigley-ish." My Aunt Isadora tries to get him to stop, lest he do it in front of Mom, but he hasn't.

Everyone thinks that my aunt writes only in couplets. Wrong. She writes in any and every style she likes. She used to use only couplets, yes, but as she matured, so did her poetry. She's a very talented poet, and her poems reflect the various sides of her personality extremely well. She published a book of poetry a few years ago. In its own circles, it was very well received. One of my Uncle Dun's favorite bands contacted her about buying the rights to one of the poems from the book and turning it into a song on their upcoming album. He'd nearly throttled her when she refused.

Duncan was cool, but, like my stepfather, I didn't really get along with him. It wasn't that we didn't like each other, but rather that we couldn't find a common ground. He was just one of those people to whom I'd probably never be able to be close.

Klaus, on the other hand, was the relative to whom I was the closest. My mom often says it's because he'd stuck around with me when I was a baby, and because he had frequently taken me to his house when she'd needed a break. I think it's because he's the one who'd taught me (by example) how to be a rocker. He was one through and through. He and I like most of the same movies, books, and (most importantly) music. My mom liked a little bit of everything, but she mainly stuck to happy, uplifting stuff.

I also think I'm close to him because he showed me how to gauge my ears.

I'd first become enamored with gauging when I'd watched Uncle Klaus do it. At the time, he'd been gauging from a size four to a size two. Putting a two in your ear is like squeezing seven regular sized earrings through one's ear. It was like being hypnotized—I just couldn't keep my eyes away, and kept gawking like a fool. When he'd seen me, he'd wanted to know why I was staring, and I'd asked to see his other "earring." I hadn't been able to imagine forcing _that_ through my lobe. He had taken me to the mall the next day so I could purchase a (much smaller) pair of my own.

We'd spent the whole day together, talking about the safe way to gauge, the things not to do unless you wanted your earlobes to split, and how to clean them. They hurt, and stink something awful, but they look cool and I like them. I'm constantly amazed at the designs people come up with, and how you gave to wind and twist some through your ears. Some are pretty simple—like putting a regular earring in—but others are complicated. (Swirls, for example, have to be put in seemingly backwards for them to look right in your ear.) Klaus is in an inch gauge now, and I have been forbidden to go past a two.

Mom says she does that kind of thing for my own good, and because she loves me. I don't doubt that she loves me, nor do I doubt that she has my best interests in mind. But I think sometimes she's a little _too_ overprotective. I guess I can understand why she does it—especially now that I know what happened to her—but I don't believe she realizes how bad she is sometimes.

She's better than she used to be, though. I can remember that it was _her_ having separation anxiety on my first day of school. I wanted to go to school, freak of nature that I am, but she was worried something bad would happen to me. I can't say her fears were unfounded, knowing her past. Simply going to the beach changed her life forever.

I love my mother. Although, she's never said so, I know I saved her life. I've heard stories about how she acted after her rape. I know that, while she acts happy, she's not alright inside. Going to a therapy session showed me that. Catching her crying her brains out in the middle of the night and having to comfort her while still half-asleep helped as well. Jack, for all of his good qualities, can't really handle tears, especially not violent ones. He wakes me up in the middle of the night every now and then so I can go to her and hold her until she cries herself back to sleep.

Thank God that doesn't happen very often now.

My mother will never not be sad, but my goal in life is to make the good moments last longer. Seeing as she's alive and not adding any more of those thin little scars to her collection, I think I can safely say I'm doing an excellent job.


	7. Chapter 6

"I understand you need this as fast as possi—"

"I don't think you do, _Miss Baudelaire_! I promised your—_invention_—to my board next Tuesday! I'll need three days to test it and give the okay on it, _Miss Baudelaire_! Then another day to get it up to the office and show it! I, unlike _some _people, _Miss Baudelaire_, intend to keep the promises I make to my customers."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ferguson, but I will not be able to finish it and ship it until Saturday. My son has the chicken pox and I had to take today off for his doctor's appointment. If he falls asleep and stays that way, I might be able to finish it tonight and ship it by Friday. I just can't guarantee that it will happen."

And so my day started. It was only eight o'clock on a dreary Thursday morning and already I was being harassed by an incensed consumer. He'd made the mistake of promising to show his "board" one of my inventions before it would be done. He'd also made the mistake of yelling at me.

"_Miss Baudelaire_! I don't care _what_ you have to do—_drug_ the kid if you need—but I _want_ this invention at my door _tomorrow_, just as you _promised_!"

I held my breath for a moment. "My dates are tentative at best, sir. If you'll read our contract again, it clearly states—"

"I don't care, _Miss Baudelaire_! If you _ever_ want to do business with _my company_ again—"

"Oh, sir, I wouldn't worry about that. I can assure you that _your company_ will never have to deal with me again." With that I slammed down the phone. It probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, but my son was ill and Mr. Ferguson would rather me work than be a decent mother. His "board" could just stinking wait.

I heard Matt begin to cry. He had a doctor's appointment at eleven o'clock. He was covered in the little red bumps from head to toe. Apparently, Klaus, Sunny, and I were the only ones who'd ever had chicken pox. (Although how someone goes twenty-six years without getting a normal childhood disease is beyond me.) I walked into the bedroom and saw that he had scratched his arm until it had begun to bleed. I groaned. He had at least six scabs on his body now. I picked him up and carried him into the bathroom. He snuggled into my shoulder as I washed the sore and put a bandage over it. I kissed it and told my son, "All better. But you won't get all better if you keep scratching." He protested wordlessly, making a face and uttering several mean noises. "I know you're itchy, Matt, but you can't scratch. Do you want me to put oven mitts on your hands?"

He looked down and sighed. I kissed him and replied, "Speaking of getting better, you need to take a bath, then we'll go to the doctor and get you some medicine so you won't be so itchy."

I'd never understood why little children so love taking a bath. Matt was content to sit and play in the water until it got too cold for comfort. Then when I took him out, he'd want to get back in. Once, he'd crawled into the bathroom and had tried to run himself a bath. He had gotten very far, seeing as he couldn't reach for enough, but he'd toppled over and hit his head on the floor. He hadn't done it since.

This time, he didn't overly enjoy the beginning of his bath. I'd looked up ways to make the irritation less severe, and found a recipe that called for baking soda in bath water. As the bath progressed, however, I noticed he seemed to enjoy himself more and more and scratch much less. At one point, he offered me a handful of water.

"No, thank you, Matthew," I said softly. "Mama will take a bath later." He shrugged and went back to slapping the water.

As I sat there, I contemplated my one year old son. When he was born he hadn't looked too much like Quigley, which made me happy. Knowing my luck, though, he'd probably grow up to be an exact copy of his father. But for now, he didn't.

Thinking about my son's father was a dangerous thing to do, especially since I had to drive in a few minutes. I found, much to my consternation, that I couldn't stop.

I'd often imagined what life with a non-rapist Quigley would have been like. I visualized our wedding day: I was wearing the white and pale yellow dress that was now stuffed in the back of my closet, and he looked absolutely dashing, his crisp tuxedo looking perfect, his longish hair slicked back. He smiled at me as I walked up to him. I smiled back. I felt him lace his fingers through mine as the minister spoke about the significance of marriage. Then, came the vows. We both repeated the words, each of us promising to love the other, to cherish them, to protect and encourage them, until Death wrenched one from the other.

"I do," I imagine him saying, smiling.

"I do," I say, and he kisses me (for a moment I feel the tip of his tongue touch mine), and we're married. Our wedding isn't glamorous or fancy or overly huge. Our families are there, and a few close friends. The reception doesn't last very long, as Quigley and I both want to be _alone_. I imagine our wedding night as something violent. Understandable, some might say, seeing as my single sexual experience thus far was rape.

The feeling of cold water being splashed on my face brought me out of my reverie. I blinked and looked down at my son. He smiled, and I reached for a soft towel and pulled him out of the bathtub. He was feeling better.

He snuggled against my shoulder as I carried him into the bedroom. He shivered slightly. (I scolded myself. He'd been in the water for much too long.) I pulled a few of his softest outfits out of the top drawer of the dresser, and laid them on the bed. Immediately, I threw aside the little shirt-and-shorts number, which left me with two onesies. I couldn't decide.

"Which one do you like, Matt?" I asked the half-sleeping form at my shoulder. He lifted his head and looked at the choices. He wrinkled his little nose for a moment, as if in deep thought, and I smiled a bit. After much contemplation, he pointed to the green romper with a baseball-playing mouse on the front.

One down, one to go, I thought, catching sight of myself in the mirror. I was still in my pajamas with my hair pulled back. I gave my son his toy fire truck and walked over to my closet. I honestly had no idea why I kept the grey and black dress I'd worn during our escapades with Olaf. Surprisingly, I could still squeeze into it. I wasn't much bigger now than I had been then. That wasn't saying much, though. I'd often been the one that had gone without food when there wasn't enough. Sunny would eat her fill, then Klaus, and if anything was left, it would go to me. The dress had been falling off of my frame when we'd finally returned to normal life.

I shook my head slightly, clearing the distressing memories, and turned to check on my son. He was asleep, nearly on top of the fire truck. I sighed. Neither one of us had gotten much sleep these past few days. Regarding my clothes once more, I reached for a simple, knee-length white skirt, and a lavender-colored tank top. It was supposed to be very hot and humid. The lighter, the better.

Reluctantly, I woke my son. "Are you hungry, Matthew?" He nodded, reaching for me. I started to pick him up, then stopped. He'd forget how to walk if I went on like this for much longer. I set him on his feet and held his hand. My son liked to walk, surprisingly enough, and did it every occasion possible. Except, it would seem, when he was ill.

He protested to not being held by Mama. Well, he was sick, after all. I picked him up with a little more effort than I thought would be necessary (he was getting so big!), and carried him into the kitchen. We both ate some pieces of apples and bananas, and shared a glass of water.

I heard the phone ring in the next room just as we finished eating.

"Hello?"

"Hello. This is an automated message, reminding you that…Matthew Baudelaire…has an appointment with…Dr. Johnson…at—"

"Eleven o'clock, yes, I know," I finished, hanging up the phone. I looked at the clock hanging in the kitchen. Ten thirty: time to go. I gathered up everything I needed, picked up my son, and left.

I secured my son in his car seat, reminding myself that he needed a bigger one. My son was smart—he knew that when the car was on and he was in it, he could listen to his favorite song or watch a movie. I was partially glad of this knowledge—it kept him occupied, at least—but on the other hand, he could get pretty loud when he was unhappy.

"Three," I counted under my breath, "two, one…"

Right on time, my son said, "Beast, Mama?"

I fished "Beauty and the Beast" out of the movie box and popped it in. I found it quite ironic that the heroine in my son's favorite movie fell in love with a beast. It reminded me of myself and Quigley. Although, to be fair to Belle, hers was a very misunderstood beast who was really very sweet and truly loved her.

In all honesty, I couldn't say that Quigley had never loved me. He had. I could remember a handful of times when he was very attentive to me, very loving and sweet. (I honestly believed that he'd raped me, not for the sex he wasn't allowed to have, but because he wanted to assert his power, strength, and superiority over me.) I thought back to a time when he hadn't acted like the Quigley I was more familiar with. I'd been very upset about nine year old Sunny. I'd been called to her school one afternoon. Sunny had beaten up another student. She'd always been a strong young girl, but I hadn't realized what anger and strength could do when used in combination. The student, a fellow classmate, had a black eye, a bloody nose, and was missing a tooth. She limped slightly as she entered the principle's office.

Sunny had no injuries, except a severely bleeding conscience. She really was a good child; she simply had a horribly short fuse. In that moment, I'd thanked God she'd grown into her teeth.

I'd given her a strongly worded lecture, had punished her, and sent her to her room. Quigley had found me sitting cross-legged on the couch, crying my eyes out. He'd wrapped his arms around me, and I'd turned into him, seeking that spot where his neck and shoulder met. When I'd stopped crying, he'd laid his hands on my waist and lifted gently.

(I hadn't felt entirely sure of what he'd wanted. He had always been more than a little possessive and controlling. Even before we'd been engaged, he wanted to control things about my life, like the bills and money in general, and my social life. He would interrogate me about who I was with, why and what we did. I'd always known he needed to assert his possessiveness. I just never thought I would take the form of rape.)

I'd stood with him and he had silently led me out of my apartment. Threading his fingers through mine, he'd starting walking down the street. A few blocks passed, and he'd finally asked what was wrong. I'd told him. He'd nodded and listened attentively as I purged my rage and confusion and feelings of inadequacy. We'd ended up in a nearby park, sitting on a bench. We talked until the sun began to set and then walked silently home again. There had truly been no need for words: he was here with me and loved me, and I was with him and loved him. That was enough for now.

Sunny had left me a note saying she was spending the night with Duncan. Quigley backed out of the apartment, and I'd gone to say goodbye. Leaning against the door, the cool autumn air around us, I kissed him goodbye and couldn't stop. I sunk into a fuzzy, dreamlike state. It was only when I realized where both sets of hands were located that I pulled away.

"Stop," I said.

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely.

"I love you," I told him, giving him a hug.

"Love you, too, baby." He hugged me back. I didn't want to let go.

I was yanked back into reality when I heard screeching tires and my son's cries.


End file.
